February 4, 2005

So, the days are long and they keep us busy throughout, with a few breaks in between. As a result, at the end of the week, it feels not like a week, but one loooonnnnggg day. It's kind of going fast in a way, but at times it feels like I've been stuck here for months instead of 3 weeks. Fortunately, only one more week to go until we can get leave passes for the weekend, and get the heck out of this place, if only for two days. That first beer in Montreal is going to taste so sweet.

I'm sucking at my inspections, and finally this morning "passed" my first one. Apparently I don't know how to fold at all. And I suc at ironing. Fortunately the 6 guys sharing the pod with me are willing to help out, and I just get to clean other stuff. At least I'm pretty good at shining boots so far. But really, if the sarge wants to look hard enough, he can find somethign to bust anyone.

That having been said, if it wasn't for the inspections, which are what's keeping us so busy all night long, this course would be a lot of fun. First aid, weapons training, militairy protocol, all are pretty interesting. The Physical Training can be fun too, in the swimming pool or on the obstacle course. Or, of course, the 5 km runs at 05:00. And then there's drill. Drill is fun. Marching around in synch with 40 other people is rather cool. Mind you, we need a lot of work, but we've got the fundamentals down.

I've got to keep an eye on what I eat, as I'm gaining weight. The food is plentiful, and a dessert with every meal probably not a good idea. Most of the time, we're rather rushed, so it's scarfing down whatever we can as fast as we can. Not very healthy.

But overall, it's going rather well for myself, but I can see that the pace is starting to get to some of the other people in my platoon. We're all trying to help each other out, but there's a couple I think are going to drop out anyways.

Anyways, I'm paying by the minute for this stupid slow computer, and I've got cleaning to do, so I should run. Fare thee well sweet noders, and hopefully I'll get another chance to letcha know how things are going soon.

I never used to be a morning person, don't think I am one now to be honest, but having worked until midnight until recently I got used to the New York that comes out when everyone else is safely passed out in bed. Going to a bar at 6pm just seemed wrong, somehow. The people were too clean, too pressed and tailored. There isn't as much of a spark there, as if putting on a suit automatically forces a sublimation of personality. Become one with the tie, and the tie shall guide you.

Midnight is for oddly intersecting collections of solitary people. Happy hour seems so pale in comparison.

But now I'm a morning person and it's sort of by choice. I go out at 7am, get breakfast and tea and cigarettes for the day, settling into a hazy early morning routine. It crept up on me, made me feel a little less disenfranchised, a little more acceptable. What's killing me is, I have no idea whether I like it or not. Mornings have an appeal I've missed, buried beneath the scarves and wooly winter half-light.

God, I woke up this morning and my throat was killing me. The hell did I do to myself last night?

I remember drinking. And yelling. Pissing in the tub.

Anthony. "Lemme get some more."Stephanie. "No, lie down."Anthony. "No, I wannit."Stephanie. "No."Anthony. "But I'm thirsty!"Stephanie. "I'll get you some 7-Up. Lie down."Anthony. "No, I want the Seagrams. It's right there in that cup. I can see it. In the bottle. The brown one."Richard. "Anthony, I poured it down the drain."Anthony. "No, Richard, you wouldn't do that to whiskey!"

Ugh, god. I remember laughing at everything but mostly myself. I remember falling, hard, onto my face, and thinking it was hilarious.

Damn, and I remember her telling me she knew, and she always knew, and she's sorry. And she's my best friend and she loves me. But not the way I want her to. But she does love me, and when I'm sober we'll talk about it, okay?

i'm wary of self-therapy because it tends more often to mislead. perpetually searching for a change in direction, or a discontinuity - an abrupt and cathartic adjustment to your train of thought can itself be another layer of obfuscation to your troubles, especially if they're as chameleon-like as mine.

i say this because i'm constantly reiterating to myself a number of 'i shoulds...' and 'now i wills...' in order to paddle myself down some sort of moat, some course which is somehow better than the others, as they seem to play out to me on philosophical, pseudo-philosophical, and otherwise total bullshit levels.

i mean, well, at least it's honest bullshit.

perhaps there's some merit to this, because when the thinking and reasoning is said and done, there are certainly, definitely, most definitely and certainly, concrete foundations to my neuroses (in the parlance of our times) which reveal themselves to me by inciting little cries of anguish, which some might call whining. (not that 'some' call it anything, because i'm speaking of internal debate - so, this is to say, "i sometimes call it whining," which it is, but whether or not it's trivial whining is, well... the jury's still out on that one.)

perhaps there's some merit to this because i want to be, what is it, i want to be the president of the united states of america, and how can you do that when you've got emotional scars? actually, no, i'm not scarred, i'm just built from a basic human firmament which is imperfect and all-in-all, i want to build this reasoned foundation -- but oh what a bad metaphor. i want to anchor myself... oh fuck it.

the point of all this is that i'm a horrible writer, incapable of appropriately presenting and proving a point. there's a disproportioned number of saddening things in my life than there are to counter them, and i do the best i can to deal with them, whilst hoping for an enjoyable, less depressing, and overall rocknroll future. how does one manage this?

well, some people seem to be able to do it very well, which is to say they hide it from everybody else. hiding what you're thinking from other people - that's what my colleagues at school (and the alumni who teach us, who will also be our bosses) like to call character. i call it psychotic, but to each his own, i guess.

let me say, though, there's something to silent desperation, but it probably has more to do with masochism and practicality than what i'm talking about. (...here there's an idea of... internalizing things... that i can't get into because i'll throw myself into logical recursion that'll make my brain disintegrate. i'm talking 4th-dimension anti-matter brain-worm attack. i'm talking upside down naked jumping jacks.)

how does one manage a troubling present, when the future in unsure, and recalling the past is sort of like pulling teeth? the answer is not, i say, to find a new hobby, cut your hair, get OMGWASTED, or commit suicide. the answer is not, most definitely, to build character, or anything else like that. i think maybe the answer is to stop asking the fucking question.